


THINGS TO MAKE JACKIE FEEL BETTER

by mermaidia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Greyjoy, HAPPINESS ONLY, Stark - Freeform, bolton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-30 01:57:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18305837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mermaidia/pseuds/mermaidia
Summary: BC JACKIE HASN’T BEEN FEELING WELL AND IM A GOOD ASS FRIEND SO I COMPILED EVERY THEONSA AND RAMSAN ONESHOT IVE WRITTEN AND IM PUTTING THEM ALL HERE ILY JACKIE





	1. Corpse Bride

**Author's Note:**

  * For [softfawnangel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/softfawnangel/gifts).



Ramsay skidded to a stop in the middle of the forest, panting hard. He hadn’t meant to run away, but now it appeared he had. He looked down at the ring in his hands. It had turned sweaty from his hands. He had run from his wedding rehearsal because he had forgotten his stupid vows — maybe he could practice here?  
There was a scraggly root sticking up from the ground like a finger, and he supposed he could practice on that.   
I, Ramsay Bolton,” He stammered, ”Take you, Myranda Snow, for my lawful wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do us part."  
With shaking hands, Ramsay slipped the ring onto the root and sighed, sitting down on a rock.   
The ground began to tremble, and the root shuddered back into the ground. The dirt fell away into a large hole in the floor, and Ramsay shouted, jumping up off of the rock.   
Slowly a figure emerged from the dirt. It was a girl, not much younger than Ramsay. She had matted, dirty ginger hair and wore a tattered veil that trailed onto the ground. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot, and they seemed too icy to be of this world. She wore a long, lacy white dress was that clotted with dirt and weeds. Her neck and bare chest seemed to be covered in something rusty colored. Perhaps a necklace? It wasn’t a necklace, Ramsay realized, considering the wide, gaping line in the girl’s neck. Why did I think it was a necklace?  
“Ramsay Bolton,” the girl said in a wispy, soft voice rounded with glee. “How happy we will be in the Land of the Dead!”  
Ramsay barely had time to scream before this corpse bride grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him down, down, down into her grave.

 

“Has he fainted?”  
“I believe so, Ash. Fetch some water for the boy, won’t you?”  
“Of course. If he wakes up, make him lay down for a bit longer.”  
The sound of soft voices roused Ramsay. His eyes fluttered open, his eyelashes tickling his cheeks.   
The room around him slowly came into focus. A white-haired man was crouching over him, looking at him worriedly. Footsteps were echoing through the loud, wooden room. Ramsay coughed and attempted to sit up.   
“No, no, stay down, son,” the man soothed, putting a firm hand on his chest and pressing him back into the floor. “Please stay down, you’re still groggy. You had quite a tumble.”  
“Where...where am I?” Ramsay stammered. The man glanced around. “The Land of the Dead. Where else would you be, son?”  
“No...no, wait! I’m alive! I’m supposed to be alive!” Ramsay shouted, surging up off of the ground. The man protested but didn’t try to force him down again.   
Footsteps sounded outside the room and a door swung open. A young woman with long, dark hair and startling violet eyes entered, carrying a bowl of sloshing water.   
“On, he’s up,” she said cheerfully. She set down the bowl on a table next to her. “Did you wake him up or did he-“   
“Out of my way!” Ramsay yelled, panicked, as he barreled last her and down the hall. The sound of merry voices echoed through the space, and he spied a door at the end of the hall. He sprinted toward it, ignoring the protests and calls of the two people behind him as he flung the door open.   
The people occupying the room turned, startled. Most of them were women, but there were a few men dressed in finery amongst them. But standing tall above the others was the corpse bride, the one who had dragged him into her grave. She stood on a wooden box and was dressed the same way, but the dirt and weeds had been cleaned off the dress and her veil was no longer tattered, and thin, white lines showed where it had been mended. The blood had been washed off her front, but the wide line in her neck remained. Her hair was still a bit dirty, but it had been brushed until it should’ve shone, but it was still dark and dull.   
“You can’t see her!” One of the women shrieked. She has long, brown hair and a round face and doe-like eyes. She carried a pair of scissors in her hands and waved them frantically. “The groom can’t see his bride before the wedding!”  
“What wedding?” Ramsay stammered. The women all gasped and muttered. “He doesn’t know,” one of them murmured.  
The brunette looked at him more closely, and then reeled back, hissing. “He is alive,” she snarled. “A live boy! Only the dead are fit to marry Sansa!”   
The women all descended on Ramsay, hissing and screaming, and he was sure he was going to be cut to death by sewing needles or scissors. But not even a few seconds after his ambush a high, clear voice rang out, screaming for the women to stop.   
The ladies slowly backed away, muttering. Ramsay watched from the floor as the bride stepped down from her box, slowly making her way over to him. She outstretched her hand, asking him to take it. Instead, Ramsay climbed to his feet himself, and the girl didn’t seem to retaliate.   
“I haven’t told him we are to be married,” she said serenely. “But now he knows.” She smiled sweetly him. “Forgive me for not telling you earlier. I was in a bit of a rush to get back down here. My name is Sansa, your fiancé.”  
Ramsay stared at her, not daring to speak, and thankfully the two people who had been with him when he woke up barged in. The young woman’s purple eyes were like fire. “Don’t run away like that!” She cried, but her voice was more pleading than angry.   
“Lady Ashara, there is no need to be angry,” Sansa said. “I have told Ramsay what is happening. Please, will you and Ser Barristan go back to the chamber and await any new guests?”  
Ashara quickly curtsied. “Of course, Lady Sansa,” she said, standing up and hurrying back int the hall, Barristan at her heels.   
Ramsay noticed something about all the undead surrounding him; they all had some sort of horrible wound. Ashara’s legs and neck were twisted in a terrifying way, and Ser Barristan had a bloody hole in his armor. The brunette who had confronted Ramsay first had green fire licking the hem of her skirt and the ends of her hair, but it never seemed to complete its job of burning her. A blonde standing nearby had blood all down her face and pink dress, and some was still trickling out of her nose and mouth.   
They’re all dead, Ramsay noticed with a bit of finality. By the end of the night, will I be dead, too?   
“It’s alright that he’s seen me,” Sansa reassured the ladies. “We can resume in another room. Myrcella, please go fetch Ashara and Barristan, will you? And stay in there until I send them back. I’ll have them escort my groom-to-be.” She smiled at him, before whisking away in a flurry of white lace and long veil, the ladies all swarming around her like flies as she exited. The brunette gave Ramsay a final glare before following.   
The blonde who had blood all down her front, Myrcella, gently touched his arm. “Don’t mind Margaery,” she whispered sweetly. “She’s been waiting for Sansa to join her, and she’s not very happy that she’s brought company.” She lightly squeezed his arm in a friendly gesture, and the disappeared down the hall, going to get his tour guides of the underworld.

 

Lady Ashara and Ser Barristan were surprisingly good hosts. They showed him around the narrow hallways of the Land of the Dead, carefully avoiding crowded spaces. They explained that it was bigger on the outside and the hallways were just a method of transportation.   
“We have to go back to the welcoming chamber, but we’ll bring you to Lady Shireen so you can be ready for your big day,”Ashara said gently. “She’s very sweet. You’ll be fine.”  
They shoved him into a dark room and closed the door. Looking around, he discovered it wasn’t that dark — a young girl sat at a desk nearby with a candle, writing furiously. She looked up at the sound of the door closing and turned around, her expression surprised.   
She had a very round face and cheeks still swollen with baby fat. Half of her face was taken up by some sort of grey growth that crawled down onto her neck. She wore a long-sleeved pink shirt and a navy jumper, something quite plain compared to Ashara’s glittering purple-and-gold toga and Sansa’s long wedding dress. As she stood, he saw that the hem of her dress and the ends of her blonde hair were smoldering, sort of like Margaery’s, but they weren’t on fire. Her hair was woven with deer antlers.   
“Hi,” she said sweetly. “I’m Shireen. I suppose Ashara and Barristan dumped you here?”  
Ramsay was taken aback by her outward friendliness. Even though Ashara and Barristan were nice, they had been a little jittery around him, but Shireen was already acting like she knew him well. She got up and walked towards him, and he realized she created a warm glow as she walked through the darkness.  
“How are you liking your time here?” She asked. Ramsay shrugged a little. “W-Why am I here?” He asked nervously.   
Shireen smiled, which was pretty because it made her eyes shine and her plump cheeks gather even more flesh. “You gave Sansa your vows, didn’t you?” She asked. “In the forest. You are betrothed.”  
Ramsay’s memory went back to the forest. Had he said his vows completely? Yes, he thought miserably. I did.   
Shireen lightly touched his arm, the same way Myrcella had done. “It’ll be fine. Sansa’s so sweet, she’ll treat you fine. She’s been wanting a worthy husband for a long time, you know.”  
Ramsay was startled. “I thought she was dead.”  
“Yes, well...” Shireen said, fidgeting. “Her previous fiancé killed her on their wedding night. They were going to elope, but...he had a change of heart.”  
Ramsay watched as she turned and went over to another door. She rummaged around before pulling out a wrinkled, old suit.  
“This is the best I have,” she said, smiling widely. “Go into the closet and get dressed. Then we’ll get you out to the chapel to get married!”  
She shoved him into the closet and closed the door, and Ramsay could hear her giggling from the other side.   
He wondered whether he could trust Shireen. In fact, could he trust anyone here? Shireen, Ashara, Barristan, Myrcella and Sansa seemed nice enough, but what about Margaery? Surely there were more people like her here. What if everyone else disapproved of this marriage? But, more importantly, how was he going to get back to his world, back to Myranda?  
He stared down at the suit in his arms. Maybe if he just faked — he could fake his marriage and get them to release him back to the Land of the Living?  
He didn’t think it was very plausible, but he could at least try. He’d get to know Sansa. Maybe even become friends. He’d never had a true friend. He and Myranda had only known each other for a short time and didn’t like each other very much. Did Shireen count as a friend? Could Sansa?  
One thing was for sure, though. He was going to survive. Surely a marriage couldn’t kill you?  
He thought of what Shireen had told him about Sansa’s past. Okay, so maybe you could die from a marriage. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He was going to live long enough to get back to his world. And, who knew — perhaps with Sansa at his side?


	2. Christmas Truce

Ramsay rubbed his hands together, his breath coming out in white clouds. Sitting in the trenches was agony in itself. The ground was cold, the dirt had turned to mud, and the stench of sickness reeked in every corner. You couldn’t sit down anywhere without seeing a dead body. The corpses didn’t bother Ramsay. The cold didn’t, either. He was one of the few who volunteered to fight in the war, one who wasn’t forced to.

It was the waiting that bothered him. He and his troops had been sitting in the trenches for about a week now, simply waiting until the other side tried to make a run across no man’s land. So far they hadn’t seen as much as a hair stick up from the other side. Ramsay wanted them to try and charge across. His rifle was getting cold.

It was Christmas Day. Perhaps that’s why the Ironborn hadn’t made a move. Maybe they were sitting in their trenches praying to their Drowned God for good wishes to their families back home. Christmas wasn’t of major importance to Ramsay. He let his men follow whatever religion they wanted, as long as they would fight into the depths of hell for it.

If he was being honest, Ramsay wanted to go home. He had left his young wife, Sansa, at home at Dreadfort to fight on the front lines. He got letters from her every week, and he would hastily send one back in between skirmishes. He was expecting to get one today, wishing him a peaceful Christmas Day.

Ramsay was rubbing the barrel of his rifle, like he always did when he was impatient, when one of his officers came running up to him. “Sir,” he said hurriedly. “The Ironborn are crossing no man’s land.”

Ramsay’s heart soared. “Then get to the guns!” He said, sounding like an excited six-year-old. “Blow them up! Didn’t I give you orders to shoot any man than came out of those trenches?”

“Yes, sir, you did, but...” the officer bit his lip. “They’re unarmed. They’re calling for a truce.”

“A truce?” Ramsay echoed. “There’s been a cease-fire for the last week. What more could they want?”

“Just...I think they want to talk to you. Maybe.” The officer said, backing away.

Ramsay sighed and climbed to the top of the trench, peeking over and brushing raven curls out of his eyes. Sure enough, he saw a whole horde of Ironborn soldiers slowly trudging across the barren, barbed-wire plain, their hands up next to their heads. At the group’s head was their general, Theon Greyjoy. He looked dirty and distraught as he took tentative steps over corpses and mounds from grenades.

Ramsay slid back down into the trench.

“What shall we do, sir?” The officer asked.

Ramsay looked at him, his mind working quickly. His mind, hands and feet were screaming at him to seize his rifle and shoot all of the soldiers down, but a smaller, much quieter voice in his heart was whispering: take the truce. It may be the last friendly contact you have with anyone, ever.

He pursed his lips, and then sighed tragically. He tossed his rifle down into the mud. Without giving an answer to the officer, he climbed to the trench again, pulled himself onto the blood-soaked, frozen grass, and raised his hands.

One by one his men climbed out after him. Ramsay took the same speed as the Ironborn, treading lightly and careful not to step on any dead bodies. Out of the corner of his eye he saw some men pick up corpses and begin dragging them back to the trenches.

Ramsay let his hands sag at his sides as he came to a stop, just feet away from the man he’d been fighting against for the past six months. Theon looked a lot different than the pictures he had seen of him. In the photographs, his curly hair was cut short and he had a mischievous grin. The man in front of him was bedraggled from loss. His hair hung over his eyes and his mouth was a pursed, straight line, and his once spotless uniform was tattered and muddy and bloody.

“We seek a truce,” Theon said in a voice hoarse from screaming. “A Christmas truce.” He held out his hand, and Ramsay took an alarmed step back. The Ironborn general’s hand was covered in bloody scabs and was shaking. Ramsay looked back up at his face and saw that his blue eyes were pleading.

Cautiously at first, but then more sure, Ramsay reached out and took Theon’s hand. It was rough and shaky, but Theon grasped his hand firmly and nodded at him. Ramsay nodded back and the soldiers took this as a signal to step forward. Ramsay watched as Ironborn soldiers stepped up to shake hands and hug his own Northern troops. He saw one of his men hand a group of shivering young Ironborn boys a stack of canned food.

Several minutes later the two, once-warring sides were speaking merrily to each other. Ramsay sat on a rock, watching his men and Theon’s get all jumbled together. He cracked a rare smile when one of the Ironborn boys came back from his trench with a soccer ball, and the men quickly divided into teams, shouting and laughing as they kicked the ball through barbed wire goals.

The emotions rose as the sun went down. Soon they lit torches and planted them in the ground so they could see. Now Theon sat at Ramsay’s side, both of them watching silently as their men got along so well.

Was it a sign? Ramsay kept thinking. Is this a sign that the war should end? Could they all go home and spend the new year with their families? Ramsay longed for Sansa. How he wanted to kiss her underneath blazing fireworks as crowds cheered to ring in 1915. It was the one thing he wanted in the whole world.

It was getting late. The moon was high overhead and the men were getting sleepy. The soccer game had been stopped due to fatigue and most men leaned against sharp wooden posts. Ramsay stood, and most of his men did the same.

“We must be getting back to our trenches,” Ramsay said to Theon, his voice overcome with choked emotion. He offered his hand and Theon took it, hauling himself to his feet. Theon gazed at Ramsay with gratitude and sadness, as if it was the last fleeting glance they’d ever share.

“I’ll see you around, General Bolton,” Theon said, his voice still hoarse. Ramsay offered his hand and Theon took it, shaking it firmly. His hand no longer shook.

Ramsay stepped down from the rock and called the Northern troops to him. As they walked away, Ramsay glanced behind him. The Ironborn troops were trudging back to their trenches. Ramsay spotted the boy who had brought the soccer ball, cradling it like a baby. Theon walked with his shoulders sagging.

Ramsay stayed at the top of the trench until all of his men were down safely. Through the ever-constant smoke, Ramsay could just about make out Theon standing at his trench as well, a forlorn little shape against all of the bloodlust and destruction. Ramsay raised his hand in farewell. Theon did the same, and then Ramsay jumped back down into the horror of the trench.

 

—

“Ramsay, sweetheart,” Sansa called, walking out of the kitchen. Her ginger hair was pulled back into a messy braid and she wore a blue-and-white frock with a spotless white apron. It was the only thing that fit her anymore; her belly was swollen with child.

Ramsay looked up from where he was reading the paper on his couch. Sansa held out a letter, and Ramsay took it, a bit puzzled. He didn’t know who it would be from.

Nothing but his name occupied the front, so he tore the seal and shimmied the letter out. The front simply said, For Ramsay Bolton. Ramsay sensed Sansa watching him over his shoulder.

He folded open the letter and began to read.

Dear Mr. Bolton,

You may remember my brother, Gen. Theon Greyjoy of the 4th Iron Regiment, from the battles from 1914-1915. You were on opposite sides of the trenches. The only time you saw each other in friendly light was for the 1914 Christmas truce. You never spoke to each other again.

Theon’s troops were moved out of those trenches in January of 1915. He saw action at two other battles before he was captured at the First Champagne Offensive. He was tortured by Lannister troops until he starved to death in their prisons. His body was burned along with over two hundred and fifty noble Ironborn men in a mass bonfire.

I met with my brother a few weeks before he was captured at Champagne. He told me of a brave, noble Bolton general who he had shaken hands with at the Christmas truce. He said that even though that general had killed a good amount of his men on that bloody western front, he wouldn’t have had any other man to fight against.

My brother’s last wish was to speak to you after the war, if you both survived. He wanted to not speak of the war, but of simple things. About your life. Your family. My brother admired you. He admired your bravery and your chivalry in the heat of battle. He wanted to be the brave general you were. I’m sure one of his last thoughts was of you.

Perhaps one day we can meet to talk about my brother.

Sincerely,

Yara Greyjoy

Ramsay folded up the letter and quietly put it back in its envelope, trying to ignore the fact his eyes were tickling from tears. Sansa had moved away and back into the kitchen; no doubt she had finished reading it before him. He thought about that last fleeting glance he had of Theon — the lonely figure surrounded by smoke and blood. He wished he had spoken to him more at the Christmas truce. He truly was a man Ramsay would’ve wanted to know.

He took the letter and put it in the bottom drawer of his nightstand. Soon enough he’d forget about it, and maybe years later he would dig it up while looking for paperwork. He’d read it and remember what a brave man Theon Greyjoy had been, and remember the silent night that had been the Christmas truce.


	3. Homecoming

Sansa woke up one cool, summery day, expecting nothing but the ordinary: Usual war updates on the radio. Normal volunteer posters in the windows. Nothing out of the ordinary.

She was making breakfast before going to wake up the kids when the notice came on the radio. It interrupted her soft, lilting opera music with mastic static. She wrinkled her nose, moving to turn the knob to get it back onto the right channel, but then stopped as a garbled news anchor’s voice came on instead.

“Attention ladies and gentlemen of the country,” the radio wheezed. “Attention. We have just received news from the eastern front. The Targaryen forces have surrendered, I repeat, the Targaryen forces have surrendered. The war is over. I repeat, the war is over.”

The knife Sansa had been holding fell to the tile floor with a loud crash, and her hands flew to her face, her eyes bubbling up with tears. The radio message kept repeating and repeating, but it went in one ear and out the other.

Sansa dropped to the floor in a crouch, bringing her knees up to her face. She began to cry, not out of sadness, but in relief. Pure, happy relief.

“Mama!” Called a little voice from the hallway. Sansa didn’t have to look to know it was Vickon, her oldest son at four years old. Merewen followed more slowly, rubbing her eyes and yawning. She still held her plushie rabbit.

“Mama, what happened? We heard a big bang.” Vickon fretted, ambling forwards and putting his little hands on Sansa’s leg. “Mama, why are you crying?”

Sansa reached forward and pulled him into a very tight hug. “I’m not sad, little one,” she said in between gasps. “I’m not sad. I must be the happiest woman in the country.”

Vickon looked puzzled. “Then why are you crying?”

Sansa brushed his hair back from his face. “It’s something women do when they’re over emotional, sweetheart. Now come on, let’s get you two dressed. We’ve got a big day to plan for.”

 

Two weeks later, Sansa, Vickon and Merewen stood at the docks of Pyke, joined by dozens upon dozens of other anxious families. Ship after ship had sailed in, dumping out malnourished, sick Ironborn soldiers and then sailing off again. Most of the ships that were bound for the inland cities had already arrived; Sansa had already received word that her brothers had all returned home to Winterfell safely.

But Sansa’s biggest concern right now was the person getting off the big, gray battleship cruising into the harbor.  
“Why are we here again, Mama?” Vickon asked. She had forced him into a dashing little collared shirt and pants, yet he kept messing with his bow tie and scuffing his shoes on the concrete. “We see the boats every day. Why is everyone here today?”

“Because,” Merewen said matter-of-factly, “war stuff. That’s what Mama told me.”

“Mama told you and not me?” Vickon seethed, looking just about ready to tussle his sister to the ground. Sansa put a hand on his shoulder before he could launch himself at her. “We’re here because your father wanted us to come,” she said.

Vickon’s eyes lit up. “Daddy told us to come?” He said excitedly. “Okay, then I’ll be really good.” He stood ramrod straight with his chin up and eyes shining.

Sansa smiled and looked back up at the warship. It had docked and the ramp slammed down onto the walkway. Men in dark gray and brown uniforms swarmed down the gangplank, and the air was filled with the shouts and cries of reuniting family members.

Sansa’s blue eyes scanned the fray of people for familiar brown hair, for seaglass eyes. She really wasn’t sure what ship he’d be on; she just knew a majority of the Ironborn troops were arriving today. She hoped he was on this one.

A lithe shadow slid through the ranks of dirty-looking soldiers. Sansa perked up. She knew that shade of skin anywhere. She stood up on her tip toes, looking across the fray of people, and was startled when he popped out in front of her.

When Theon had come back from the war about three years ago for a brief Christmastime, he had looked bedraggled; his hair had been matted and tangled and hung down into his permanently-startled eyes. Bloody scabs covered his body and even little Vickon, who had been nearing his second birthday, had screamed and run from him.

But now Theon looked as pristine and regal as he had before. He had cut his hair and his skin was clean, and only faint white lines showed where those scabs had been. His eyes shone with a light that hadn’t been there before. His uniform was spotless and medals shone at his chest. Even his white gloves, which even when he wore them in peacetime would get dirty, were immaculate.

“DADDY!” Vickon practically screamed, flying into Theon’s legs. Theon puffed out a startled breath, but then grinned that immaculate doofus amazing sent from heaven mother of god everything is fine I’ve defeated satan and killed him in the depths of hell and grown wings to fly and bring his remains up to jesus grin and stooped down to scoop Vickon up, laughing as Vickon flung his arms around his neck. Merewen shrieked as well and went running to him, and Theon balanced Vickon on one arm as he scooped Merewen up with his other arm to smother her face in ticklish kisses.

He set the children down and crouched down to listen to them as they both tried to talk over each other. Finally Theon stood, still smiling, and raised his eyes to look at Sansa.

She had been attempting to hide the shaking in her shoulders but could do it not longer. She let out a loud, choking sob and practically jumped into Theon’s arms, which were around her in an instant. He was warm, warmer than he had been those three years ago when he had staggered off that ship half-dead. He lifted her off the ground and spun her around, and she just kept crying, grabbing the back of his shirt to make sure he was real.

Theon pulled away and without missing a beat leaned in and kissed her. It was like air blown on embers; an old, fierce, nearly buried longing burst into life in Sansa’s chest and she leaned in, putting a hand on the side of his face. She was unconsciously aware of Vickon and Merewen jumping around their feet and shrieking with happiness, but right now her world was just Theon and only Theon.

Finally they pulled away and took a long moment to stare into each other’s blue eyes.

“Did you win?” Sansa whispered jokingly.

Theon smiled another dazzling smile. “Of course I did,” he said, leaning in close again. “Because I’m here with you.”


End file.
